Loving to sit at my new outdoor writing spot. The late afternoon is warm, not hot. The vines on the fence still have some flowers. There is only the faintest breeze stirring the palm fronds; I can't feel it. A small butterfly flits among my thriving green weeds.
Thursday, November 1, 2012
That bare branch extends
like a naked arm
from its clothing of leaves,
the forked twig on the end
a thumb and pointing finger.
What does the tree want to say,
in graceful elegance
yet so significant?
'I am here,' it says. 'Here I am!'
'Here I am!' it says. 'I am here.'